


Bring It On

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bring it on - Freeform, Greg was tired okay?, M/M, cheerleading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg was supposed to meet Mycroft for dinner, and spend the night, and didn't turn up. Mycroft had to go find him: in his flat. So tired his brain rebooted to default settings and sent him home to his flat. And the telly took care of the rest of his brain. It's not like he's actually watching a movie about cheerleaders. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring It On

Greg was asleep with his eyes open. Possibly.

The other explanation was that he was dead. Mycroft chose not to consider this as the first possibility. So he was asleep. There was an empty bottle on the floor under his flaccid hand, his arm having fallen off the arm of the chair. He was slouched so low that his chin was hidden by the collar of his shirt. When Mycroft was closer, he could see him blinking, slowly and rarely, and the back of his hair was scraped up against the back of the chair. 

“Greg?” Mycroft said softly, before he became afraid to speak at all.

Greg grunted. Mycroft saw his torso move with it, and was equally alarmed and comforted. At least that was proof he wasn’t entirely dead, but that was only from the neck down.

“Has something happened?”

Greg blinked again, and this time took a deep breath, as though just waking up. But his eyes never left the screen. “She just tore up the cheque.”

“Who did? What cheque?”

“Her. Pretty one. No, her.”  He was nodding at the screen.

Mycroft glanced at it, then moved to stand next to Greg, his back to the television. “Is there something wrong?”

“Some kind of argument over who wrote the song.”

“You’re speaking nonsense, Gregory.”

“No, it’s a ...thing. Dancers, only for sports.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

Greg tipped his head aside to glare up at him, but it was too awkward to maintain, and he went back to watching the screen. “How many bottles are there?”

“One.”

“Wine?”

“No. Pride.”

“There you go, then. One drink.”

“How long have you been here.”

This got another deep breath and a sigh. “I dunno. Long enough to drink a beer.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Tired.”

Mycroft nodded to himself, and glanced back at the television again, coming to a decision. He bent down and picked up Greg’s hand, then straightened again. Greg’s hand was absolutely limp in his, the arm surprisingly heavy. “Up, Greg.”

Greg’s face creased, his lips thinning briefly before relaxing again into a frown. He got his other hand onto the arm of the chair, but Mycroft had to haul on him, rocking backwards and using his weight to pry Greg upright. “No, no,” he said as Greg stumbled against him. “Sofa.” He nudged him across to the worn velour cushions, holding him up as he knocked his leg against the coffee table, then lowered him gently onto the end seat of the sofa. 

Mycroft removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair, then walked around the table to sit on the opposite end of the sofa and reach out for Greg’s hand. “Come on,” he coaxed.

Greg settled against him, his head on Mycroft’s lap, his eyes still fixed on the television. “They’re so flexible. I was never that flexible. I don’t think anyone is. Maybe it’s all computer graphics,” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft made a noise, enough so Greg knew he’d been heard. He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the news, reading up on the details of the chase around Camden, three officers in the canal, two in hospital, the mugger found strangled by the strap of a stolen purse that had caught when he’d climbed a fence. He sent a few texts, including one to cancel the dinner reservation, and ordered delivery instead. It would be forty minutes until the food came, anyway, and he let his eyes fall to the grey hair in his lap. “I never suspected that you had a weakness for cheerleaders.”

“As athletes. ‘S impressive. The sport behind them’s awful, but they’re okay.”

“Prefer blondes?”

“Jus’ stop,” Greg slurred. “I’m not gonna think. Stop tryin’ to make me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

By the time the food arrived, Mycroft had a damp patch on the knee of his trousers.


End file.
